


Sherlock's Clarity

by IsurvivedReichenbach221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsurvivedReichenbach221B/pseuds/IsurvivedReichenbach221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murders start popping up in London and Sherlock sees a pattern that worries him. Worried for John's safety, he takes precautions but eventually the killer gets to John. In order to save his life, Sherlock has to throw himself into harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John could feel the soft, smoothness of sheets. The sounds of pleasure rang all over and around him. A warm body was nestled deep into his own curves. Moonlight from a window shone down upon the two bodies writhing in unison, their passion peaking higher and higher.  
Sensation sparked every nerve inside of John, he knew in his entire being the person he was with had to be cherished, had to be loved, he knew the person loved him back. Soft fingers roamed his skin, lips touched his shoulder where his scar lay. For a moment, it seemed surreal that John couldn't recall how his partner felt.  
Needing to change this, he touched, roaming hands over skin and body, feeling an awful lot of bone. The chest, where his mind didn't expect breast and yet did at the same time, encountered a softly hair chest and smooth, skinny ribs. Though somewhere deep in his mind, the thought that was odd, the rest of him didn't think so. He kissed smooth collarbones, shoulders. He grazed teeth on a skinny neck. Soft, deep moans answered him as his hands pushed on hips that were farther down than he expected, yet he wasn't surprised.  
His name, whispered in the dark, brought John's head up and he looked into the most fascinating eyes he'd ever seen. Moonlight shone, brightening the green/grey orbs that were his partners eyes, softened by pleasure. Intense satisfaction shot through every nerve in John's body, knowing full well he was the only one who could put such an emotion in those eyes, who could soften such a hard stare.  
In answer, he moaned, leaning his head down and placing a kiss on the soft lips of his partner. In response, he felt intense pleasure on his groin, long fingers encasing his length, pleasure spiking up his spine as the fingers shifted up and down in a stead rhythm.  
In his ear, he heard a soft buzzing. Squeezing his eyes, thinking it a fly, he kissed his partner deeper, harder. The buzzing continued and he became aggravated, scratching his nails into bony hips.  
Suddenly, as if he'd been hit in the head, he snapped his eyes open and realized the buzzing was a phone. Eyes beneath him looked sharp, the pleasure disappearing like the flick of a switch. John pulled farther back, sheets falling from his back, down his butt and to his legs. He realized he was naked, the body beneath him was naked.  
For some reason, he started to become shocked. he was naked with a man, that was for sure. He was not in his room, but everything was familiar. So were the eyes boring into him, screaming displeasure at something.  
The buzzing of his phone, which he could not visually locate, rang ever the louder, blocking out everything. When it paused, as phones do, he touched the brown, unruly hair of his mate and shot back in surprise.  
As John woke up, the name "Sherlock" was on his lips. the sound reached his ears so he knew he'd said it aloud. When he looked around, morning light shone in through his windows into his bedroom. Sherlock was, thankfully, nowhere in sight. The bed next to him was empty, cold. no telltale signs of a partner lay anywhere and John signed aloud. He ran his hands over his face after he rose to a seating position.  
What the heck was that all about? He asked himself mentally. He had just dreamed about having sex with Sherlock. That had never happened before. Nothing special had happened to make this new thought into his head, so why had it happened?  
Not to dwell on the mystery, he picked up his phone and saw two missed calls from Lestrade. Confused, he listened to his messages.  
The first was about a new case he needed John and Sherlock to come right away. Lestrade told him the location only and asked him to be there ASAP.  
the second message was confusing. All it entailed were the following:  
Sherlock told me to not bother you with this case. He told me to leave you out of it and to let you know that he can handle it on his own. I'm going to inform you, though, that they have a few patients at the hospital I would like you to visit sometime today, if you could.  
He sent Lestrade a text message, saying he'd see to the patients. He also tried phoning Sherlock, but he had to wait until the absolute last ring before he got an answer.  
"Yes, John, I'm busy."  
"Why don't you want me on this case? We're partners, we do things together. I know how obsessed you get."  
"I'll be fine, I have a mother to worry over me. You were asleep when I left, groaning around about incoherent things. I left you to rest. I have work, John. Either go back to sleep or go visit the patients." Sherlock hung up, having said everything he wanted, leaving John to stare at his phone. He noticed then, that the sheets were tangled around his legs and his body was covered in a sheet of sweat. He would have thought himself with fever had he not been thoroughly aware of his hard length.  
Not wanting to think about why he was so hard, John rose and readied himself to the day, fixing to stay as late as needed at the hospital. It was very much so possible Sherlock had given Lestrade the patients as an idea to keep John from the case but Sherlock was a big boy who'd handled cases years before they'd become flatmates and this wouldn't be different.  
The only thing that confused him was why this particular case Sherlock was so obviously against John helping with. But that would have to wait, for the patients, real or fake, were the first thing any doctor worried about.


	2. New Case

ONE WEEK LATER  
The skies outside of the flat in London were dreary. Dark, rolling clouds proved it to be a nasty day. Per usual, John had risen early and had watched the news when he'd seen the clouds. Nothing too horrible or unusual was to take place. Which was good. As also per usual, Sherlock was already up and away, working on a case. To be honest, he'd never gotten up because he'd never gone down. The man acted like he was on constant RedBull.  
John sighed, rubbed his shoulder, and checked his phone.  
On my way back. SH  
Confused as to why that hadn't taken too long, John replied back with "I'm here" and left it at that. He rose and made some tea, wondering how far off Sherlock was and if the tea would still be warm.  
For some unknown reason, Sherlock had gotten asked to help on a case but had not told John a single thing. John assumed it was a murder, why else would he be pulled into a case, yet he'd read nothing in papers or seen nothing in the news. Asking Sherlock himself was like talking to a wall that could look at you with that intimidating stare that screamed "shut up."  
Once the tea was done, John drank it sitting down. He looked at the yellow face upon the wall and didn't know, like usual, what to make of it. Somehow, though, it made this place, just like everything else.  
Downstairs there were soft noises that John could easily interpret as Sherlock coming home. He ambled up the stairs and into the door. John was glad to see the steam still rising from his cup, which meant the one he'd left for Sherlock in the kitchen was still just as warm. Now the concern was if he'd actually pick it up and drink it, or even notice it there. Not likely he'd even go into the kitchen.  
As Sherlock walked through the living room where John was seated, John sighed. He had that look that Sherlock always got when he was ten times too deep into a case. It would be unlikely if Sherlock even thought about drinks or food, or even sleep, for the next week or so. And again, like always, that job would fall into his hands.  
"Sherlock," John said softly, breathing on his tea. Apparently not hearing him, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and cupped his hands under his lips, resting on his chin. His eyes were sharp, yet unfocused to his surroundings. "Sherlock," John said again, louder, his cup lowering. This was usual, and he expected to have to say it a dozen times before the man even hear him, let alone reacted.  
Knowing how honestly tiring it would be to sit there and call out his flatmates name forever, John decided not to go about doing such a silly thing, just this once. When his tea was done and he was relaxed about the morning, then he would worry about Sherlock's health, but only in body. Lord knew his mind was a goner.  
After only a few sips of his tea, blissfully ignoring Sherlock and any soft, barely perceivable noises he made while thinking, John heard a loud "harumph!" come from the couch.  
He raised his eyes, cup to his lips, and saw Sherlock's penetrating eyes focused fully on him. Unlike most people, they didn't faze him in such a strong way as to make him look away from fear or shame, but rather because he wanted to see how close the tea was to his lips. After sipping, he set the cup down and then turned in the chair to see Sherlock better, whom was still staring at him.  
"Yes, Sherlock, what is it?"  
"The telly is on."  
"Yes, I turned it on to watch the news. It's fascinating." John said blandly. Even though Sherlock knew he was a genius, he acted like everyone could know exactly what he wanted and needed with barely anything said, if anything at all.  
"I'm trying to think." Sherlock stated flatly and John nodded at him, picking his tea back up because the issue didn't seem very worthy of much attention.  
"I see that. And I'm watching the news. You can ignore everything around you, I know, so I'm sure the telly doesn't bother you." John broke eye contact, sipping his tea, and making a purposeful argument by gluing his eyes to the newscasters.  
After a few more minutes, Sherlock shot up and started pacing. His eyes were almost always on John. Feeling awkward, John put his tea down and watched Sherlock right back.  
"Go spend holiday with some relatives." Sherlock suddenly said, stopping on the other side of the room. He face John with intensity, his fingers interlocked before his chin.  
"Pardon?" John coughed out, stunned by the sudden comment he hadn't expected in the least.  
"Friends, or relatives, it matters not. Just that you go for a holiday."  
"Why, may I ask, do I need holiday? Is this another way to keep me out of the blasted case?" John rose, irritated. "I Told you already, I don't give a damn about the case if you don't want me apart of it. I haven't tried sticking my nose in since I realized the patients were fake!" Sherlock didn't even flinch at the sharp tone, which seemed to anger John all the more.  
"You're stressed and need a break. I already called a friend of yours. He agreed to let you stay a while."  
"I know communication or anything of the sort is difficult for you, but I'm not leaving. Even if you hadn't decided for me. I like where I am and I'm staying. I don't need a holiday."  
"Yes you do." He said mater-of-factly, which only made John more furious.  
"WE're flatmates, coworkers, whathaveyou but I'll not let you boss me out of the flat. If you want me to go on holiday, you're going to give me a wonderful reason. And by wonderful I mean it has to be so good I'm excited to leave."  
"I haven't caught the killer yet, John."  
"It's only been a week. You'll get them eventually. What does this have to do with anything?"  
"I will be spending a lot of time away. I believe it would be more logical if you took this time to have a holiday."  
John, confused now, took his now cold tea into the kitchen and was followed by Sherlock. "so let me get this straight, you want me to go relax because you figure this case will take a while."  
"Precisely." Sherlock said calmly, looking at the full cup of tea, cooled surely as much as John's own cup. "Did you make tea?"  
"Yes, I did. That cup is yours." John sighed, leaning against the counter. "Will it help with your case if I do go? Will you feel better?"  
Sherlock, not one for overly emotional responses, or overly responses in general, nodded curtly once.  
"Fine. But I choose who I go stay with. Does it have to be out of town?"  
"Preferred."  
"Fine." John dumped his tea and went to grab his phone from the living room and, as he walked to his room, phoned a friend and made chipper small talk, confirming a stay. He would only allow himself to be gone a few days, and his friend new Sherlock as well as his number, just in case John decided not to go last second. John knew Sherlock would be as anal about that detail as any other detail. He arranged for five days, to which his friend agreed and told him he could come early tomorrow morning.  
After he relayed this information to Sherlock, who was satisfied enough to let John pack by himself, John wondered exactly what it was about this case that made Sherlock act so unusual. He had never once thought about John's well being off a case, never mind in the middle of one. But since no one, not even Lestrade would talk to him about it, he would just have to wait.


	3. Abducted

When John had woken, Sherlock was again nowhere in sight. He had packed the night before, so all he had to do was bring his luggage to the front room, double check everything, and then call a cab.  
He was putting around, double checking that Sherlock should be fine if he gave himself a thought once in a while about food or drink, when he heard noise from below. He arched his eyebrow and then sighed. It was unlikely but still possible that Sherlock was putting about downstairs, seeing if John would actually leave.  
Pulling his phone out, he sent a text to Sherlock:  
I don't need you fumbling about downstairs, I'm just about to call the cab.  
The immediate reply was: I'm not there. SH  
John felt a cold shiver run down his back before he relaxed. It was mostly likely just Mrs. Hudson. Good, because John wanted to inform her that he was off to holiday and would need to keep an eye on Sherlock. He walked towards the door and opened it before his phone buzzed once more.  
I'm on my way. Don't open the door! SH  
Confused and startled, John looked up when he heard a sharp snap and he reeled back. a hand shot out, grabbing the soft folds of his jacket and yanked, sending his balance wayward. Before him, a shadow clouded in a sweatshirt lunged, something hitting John in the forehead. He stumbled, falling hard onto the floor. He felt his phone thump from his hand as his elbow hit the floor. Stunned, he looked around and then focused upon the dark shape coming above him. He could see dark stubble and a large, crazed grin.  
"Hello, Dr. John Watson. It's nice meeting you!" The man almost sang before slammed the head of the baseball bat into John's forehead, blackening his vision and killing all his senses.  
~  
In the morning, when Sherlock was called out before the sun barely even rose, he'd gone to double check that John was going to go. Opening his door a sliver, he saw the packed bags. Before he closed the door, he hear a rustling and, concerned, leaned his head in and peered over. Upon the bed lay John, legs and hips wrapped around the blanket, groaning and tense. It wasn't a nightmare, Sherlock knew when the nightmares hit, but also because he could see John's number hard and full under the thin sheet. Blushing a soft pink, Sherlock closed the door and walked out.  
It had been hard, but Sherlock and Lestrade had finally given the press enough promises for them to keep the news off the streets. They were promising to give all details once it was solved, and to keep all who were targeted safe. To Lestrade, this meant they had large elbow room to get what needed doing. To Sherlock, it meant he could keep it away from John and hopefully keep him safer.  
Sherlock had purposefully not let John be apart of the team, for he new the intent of the killer. The first crime scene had spelled it all out. He was an older man, but he was a war veteran. He'd been killed by a violent stab wound in his shoulder. Attached to a few of the crime scenes, those with similar wounds, were notes directed towards him. Every victim was either a veteran or was on leave or had been removed due to injury. The weapons were almost never the same but the bodies pointed to Sherlock always had simliar injuries to John, which Sherlock didn't outright connect the dots fully together until too late.  
1\. For Sherlock Holmes! I am doing you a favor. You will not enjoy it, but one day you will thank me.  
2\. Do you understand me, yet, Mr. Holmes?   
3\. To Sherlock Holmes, I believe this will clear everything up.   
The fourth note, on the latest victim that called him away early in the morning John was going to leave, gave more chills than he'd ever felt his whole life. the scene was one of the most gruesome he'd ever seen.  
In the ceiling there had been drilled hooks, to which chains and rope held up the body of a fairly fit and good looking man who'd been on leave to see his mother on her birthday. His shoulder was almost severed by the violence of the stab wounds. His knee was so bashed in that shards of the baseball bat that had been used were found almost everywhere on the floor. On his one good shoulder, since there was no room on the ruined one, stuck out a fire poker that had been so violently stabbed in he'd been stuck to the wall.  
4\. Dear Mr. Holmes,   
I do believe I can not be much more clear than to take straight action. You believe your dear Doctor will be safe far away but you forget that he can be removed as easily as any other pawn. Soon you will see that you can not protect what you have from my need to purge you.   
Your Ever Admirer

He had found this note seconds after receiving the text from John:  
I don't need you fumbling about downstairs, I'm just about to call the cab. JW  
Sherlock had sent quickly: I'm not there.  
This is the exact moment Lestrade came up to his side and handed him the note that had been held against the body by the fire poker sticking out of his shoulder. Sherlock had clicked all the pieces together, called himself a right moron for not realizing what was so obviously the plan of the killer, and he'd bolted for their flat. He sent a text, telling John he was on his way and to not open the door.  
After no answer, he called the phone. When no answer ensued, he repeated calling John until he came up to the building where he bolted up the stairs two by two and stopped dead when he could see the door to their flat. Sherlock had to steel himself harder than usual. Suddenly, his throat was dry and his palms were sweaty.  
The door stood ajar. He could see the packed bags still, pressed against the wall on the other side of the room. The window was open just so. John wouldn't have let any of these things happen if he had a say. Sherlock took a tentative step forward, conscience of the crime scene, and saw a phone just so. As well, he located a spot half on, half off the carpet that looked like a dark liquid. since no cup was to be seen, and the killer wouldn't have cleaned up anything unless it had been his. The only correct deduction was the phone belonged to John as well as the blood.  
To be sure, he dialed John's number until the phone buzzed in the flat. Sherlock,unsure of what he was feeling or thinking, he called Lestrade and informed him there was a crime scene at 221 B. Bakers Street where there was blood and a missing person.  
"Is John there?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock's grip on the phone tightened.  
"No, he's missing."


	4. Finding Aaron

Two days later, Sherlock found himself sitting in the chair in the living room. He'd gone to the press, he'd told Lestrade that they needed to know everything. Lestrade, reluctant at first, agreed to it. The TV almost constantly played the brutal murders. When one channel took a break, he switched to a new one.  
He needed to review each and every clue there was. He was no closer to finding John than he had been the moment he'd known John was gone. Feeling the loss so painfully his hands shook, Sherlock yelled out and knocked everything off the side table with a swipe of his arm. He rose from the chair and paced. The likelihood that John was still alive was so slim, Sherlock didn't even want to think about it. The thought of never seeing John again made him violent.  
The thought that John was dead and he may be the next pair of dead eyes Sherlock saw kept him up at night.  
After trying, and not fully succeeding, in not breaking everything in the kitchen, Sherlock went into John's room. He knew he wouldn't move anything in there, let alone damage it. Also, he needed to think John was somewhere near him because, as it turns out, he couldn't think right without him.  
All the victims previously had been killed in the same spot they were found. John on the other hand, had been removed after being wounded, and hadn't shown up since. The police force was aware of John's absence as well as the newscasters. Lestrade was one of two aware of Sherlock's seemingly complete breakdown. Mrs. Hudson was the only other person because she couldn't get Sherlock to eat or drink, or even to lie down and rest for more than a few hours at a time. Though Sherlock looked positively sick as well as exhausted.  
He couldn't imagine the torture John was being put through, all because of him. Without realizing exactly what he was doing, Sherlock lay upon the bed, taking a deep breath. For a moment, he didn't question what he was doing but then he suddenly realized that he missed John so bad it hurt. His chest tightened at the smell, expecting John to walk into the room and have one of his issues about personal space.  
Sherlock turned his face to the side, resting is arms and legs, breathing John's smell deep. He shut his eyes a minute. His mind slowed in a way it hadn't since he started worrying over the case. It had all been boiling down to this: loosing his Doctor. How could he have not seen?  
He rolled his head to the other side, pushing up more of John's smell. Why was the killer only going after veterans? What grudge did he have against John himself?  
Sighing, he opened his eyes and focused directly in front of him. His eyes suddenly locked onto a picture frame. It was fairly older but he could definitely recognize John. What fully caught his eyes were the others in the picture. Sherlock shot up and snatched the picture frame.  
Calling Lestrade, he asked for a ride and was on his way to Lestrade's office in under half an hour. The moment he walked in, the pictures and information of all the victims were laid out on the desk. Sherlock took the picture out of the frame and compared the faces and found each and every murder victims face was in the picture, though there was a considerable amount more that weren't in the picture. John, the Doctor-type of this particular regiment, was the last one. Only there was one last detail.  
"Who is this man? Is he a victim? Why don't I have all the pictures here?" Sherlock demanded from Lestrade and the three other officers in the room.  
"Those are all the pictures. You, get me information on that man." Sherlock gave the picture to the man Lestrade pointed to and paced the moment the man left.  
"It's the first lead we have, Sherlock, don't expect anything..." The glare Sherlock leveled at the man who was talking, one of the two left, shut the man right up. Sherlock continued his pacing until the man came back, a folder in one hand and the photo in another.  
"You'll never believe who he is." He set the folder down and opened the file, showing a picture of the man in the photo. Sherlock frowned, grabbing the folder and reading. After a short few minutes he looked up, finding the men and Lestrade waiting.  
"He is Arron. He was filed MIA after everyone but him came back. They basically said they were ambushed and scattered. He never showed up at their recovery point and they couldn't possibly know where to start looking so they let everyone know his face and name and slapped MIA on his file." Sherlock sighed. "In other words, we have nothing."  
"Actually," the man who'd brought the file said, "he was brought back. They found him." He pointed deeper into the file of papers Sherlock was holding and he flipped to where the man pointed. He had been found late last year.  
Sherlock nodded and then looked to Lestrade. "I can think better alone. Allow me to take the file to my flat and I'll call you if I find anything useful." Lestrade didn't feel right but he sighed, knowing there was a small possibility they'd find it without Sherlock and he was a very stubborn man. Once he got it into his head he wanted to be alone, it was going to happen.  
An hour later, Sherlock had the papers spread out over the coffee table in the sitting room. He put his fingers to his mouth and readied himself for what was to come. The story of Arron was not long, but it spoke little.  
Sherlock frowned, reading farther. He'd assumed the rest was just reports about the dates and times leading up to the MIA report. Not having John was affecting him horrifically. The times he needed his abilities, they were the hardest to grab.  
"He was found wandering the wilds six months ago. He had been found unstable and institutionalized. After a few months, his therapists claimed he was fine, if a little damaged in his mind. They cleared him to be able to live on his own and he...He bought a farmhouse about eight miles out of town." He said this aloud, summarizing the last few pages. Within the pages was a more recent picture of a man scared and tortured, a man who'd been broken and pieced haphazardly together. He put the picture in a pocket for possible use later. To realize there was a possible farmhouse that held John, Sherlock shot up from his chair and readied himself to go. His heart flew to his throat and he went to John's room.  
He smiled and fixed the bed from when he'd laid upon it. John would have none of it, just as Sherlock wouldn't. John was learning from Sherlock and maybe that wasn't the best thing, but it was happening and John was happy where he was.  
Without even thinking about calling Lestrade, Sherlock got a cab and paid extra to be dropped off two miles from the farmhouse, plenty of space to not be seen coming. Smiling, excited, he wasn't even thinking about if John wouldn't be home later that day.  
As he came within sight of the farmhouse, he grew more and more sure he was to find something of importance here. He used a smart method and headed for the chicken coop in the back of the yard first. It was essential to search each building, of that there were five, in order to successfully deduce if coming here was a good idea.  
There was nothing but, as was guessed, chickens inside the coop. He moved to the big barn, mentally checking the building off his list. Next, he would check the mobile home, then the shed big enough to hold two cars, and then the two story home. He had to get through the barn, first, so he crept through, checking to make sure no one was after him, and slipped inside.  
He immediately noticed the lack of cobwebs as he moved to the middle of the first room in the barn. At the back on the far right, he could see a small light that didn't look like the sunlight. Though the sun was setting, this light was obviously not apart of it.  
Sherlock moved smoothly to the back, careful to make as little noise as possible. The light was coming from slips between the wood boards. It was a very old barn and he was having a hard time with the squeaky boards. The door wasn't locked so he opened it, but carefully.The room was eight feet by ten feet. Inside, he saw a body curled on a dirty mattress. The light was coming from a battery powered lamp about a foot away from the body right next to the mattress.  
Keeping himself in as much check as possible in a situation as this, Sherlock moved forward slowly. he didn't want to startle whomever this person was. The chance of it being a body with no life was fairly high, but that didn't bother Sherlock. What did bother him to the very core was if it was John and he was lifeless.  
A sharp, agonizing pain hit him in the hip and he felt and heard the phone in his pocket crack.  
"I was hoping you wouldn't show up, Mr. Holmes." A voice from behind Sherlock said softly, sadness almost dripping from it. He spun around and saw a man that could have been the man in the photograph he'd pulled from John's room. The scars and torture on his face could never be fixed. This man, though, was the spitting image of the photo in his pocket. He held a bat in his hands.  
"I am under the assumption you are Arron." Sherlock said, straightening and looking at the man. "You have angered many people."  
"I assure you that I meant to anger those people, Sherlock Holmes." He smiled, but with the scares he looked more like he was grimacing. "How did you find out it was me?"  
"You know my name. You know I would have sooner or later." Arron nodded at him, his teeth showing. HE was missing a few teeth and obviously hadn't bother to fix any of the chipped ones either. "Where is John Watson!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, lunging for the door. It slammed in his face and he heard a very unsettling laugh.  
"The amazing Sherlock Holmes should have known I wouldn't have hurt him unless he started ruining my plans!" The laugh continued even after a distinct click signaled a lock setting in its place. As well, it was very audible to hear the front door of the barn slam and more than one lock click. Sherlock had nothing to chip away at wood held together by metal, and he was fairly too aware of how little possibility there was to slamming his shoulder against any wall either.  
So instead of looking for escape, he turned to look at the body, which hadn't made even a twitch or squeak, and steeled himself for what was to come.


	5. Dr. John Watson

The sound of his breathing was heavy. He'd never before felt anxiety so strong and violent as he did now. He hadn't moved one inch towards the body on the mattress, no matter how close he was. The hair was blond but Arron was not fearful of dying his victims hair.  
Sherlock put a hand to his chest, feeling the hard, fast thumping and found it was hard to breath. He hadn't had a panic attack since he was in grade school, very young grade school. Instead of succumb to it, he forced his feet forwards. It didn't take long for him to hit the mattress, but it felt like hours. He dropped carefully to his knees and gently touched the shoulder of the body.  
Since the form was facing towards the door, Sherlock saw the moment the head rose just enough for tired, bloodshot eyes to rise up from the arms crossed over the body. A moment of happiness buzzed through Sherlock seeing the person alive, but he still couldn't tell. The person was a lot dirtier than he thought, now that he was up close. Not to mention the falling sun was considerably lower and the only trustworthy light was from the lantern.  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. Can you speak? Are you in pain?"  
The person responded almost immediately to the name, the head rising up from the folds of the arms. Sherlock felt a shock fly through him like lightning as John blinked up at him, his face covered in dirt, dust, and dried blood. He had a partially swollen lip and one of his cheeks was swollen and bruised pretty badly. There was also a bruise across his forehead Sherlock hadn't been able to see before.  
"Sher...lo...ck..." John tried saying in a hoarse whisper, obviously becoming, if not already was, dehydrated. "You... ca... me... for... me... e" He broke into a painful-looking cough that, thankfully didn't last much longer than half a minute.  
"Yes, I did. Of course I did." Sherlock smiled and reached up, checking right under the broken lip without even thinking he was touching John's bottom lip. "Don't talk, I have no water and I doubt he'll get any for us."  
John looked at Sherlock expectantly, as if waiting for more and Sherlock lifted his shoulders, took a deep breath, and then sighed.  
"He was killing everyone from your platoon. All the survivors. His name is Arron." John's eyes widened and he struggled to rise. Sherlock restrained him with only one hand due to how weak John obviously was. "He was found six months ago and hospitalized but found able to care for himself enough to buy this place. I'm guessing he blames you all for what happened to him, all the scars. He killed more from your platoon, that's for sure, but the ones he killed that you knew had been given wounds you received."  
John made a sound like he was clearing his throat. "Wh...y?"  
"I don't know why he is doing it, John." He looked down at his flatmate and realized that's not what he was asking. "Oh. I kept you from it to try and save you. I didn't know they were your friends, once. I just knew he was targeting veterans. I didn't want you involved. I thought it would help. I was wrong. both in making the decision for you as well as thinking it would help." John nodded at him, with that special look he always gave Sherlock to drive home the point that while he was a genius, he was still stupid.  
Sherlock smiled down at John and was about to ask how he was when he heard the lock release. He jumped up, ready for anything, when Arron pointed a gun at him.  
"Back up into the corner, Mr. Holmes. I only want John." Sherlock didn't move. He wasn't about to leave John's side. "I said move!" The gun cocked and he aimed it at John. Sherlock jumped, moving to the corner as if he'd been pinched. Aron walked in, grabbed John around the shoulder, and hauled him away. The gun stayed on his temple until he was out of sight and the door was locked behind Arron.  
"If you kill him I swear I will make you suffer!" Sherlock yelled as loud and menacingly as he could. He bashed his fist on the door, making it rattle but proving the point that it was held stiff enough by the metal to be elbowed out.  
He picked his phone from his pocket. He hadn't charged it and didn't know if cracking the phone killed the battery but he couldn't pull up a screen. Hopefully it was on just enough for Lestrade to try and get a signal if he ever tried.  
\---  
Lestrade woke with the sun and checked his phone. Sherlock had been studying for hours. To think the man slept at all would be a joke. He knew the borderline of craziness the man straddled like a horse. he had, as well, been acting unusually emotional about John being abducted. Sure, they were flatmates but as long as he'd known Sherlock, he'd never been so emotional as to raise his voice. Now, he was a mess.  
Concerned, he called their landlord, Mrs. Hudson, and voiced his concern on Sherlock's well-being.  
"Of course I understand how you feel, Mr. Lestrade. And I fully back you up, of course. But for right now I'm in town shopping for a few things. Mr. Sherlock broke some of the dishes the other day and they need replacing. Within the hour, I shall be back home and I will check up on him and have him call you."  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I will be waiting for his call."  
They said their good-byes and Lestrade sat at his desk when he got to work, hoping Sherlock hadn't found anything and gone by himself, though he had a tendency to do that. Sure, Sherlock was capable of handling himself. But so were all the men Arron had killed, as well as John who was kidnapped in such a short amount of time.  
After realizing there was a possibility he wouldn't get a call for a bit, he started in on his work. He kept his phone near him at all times and only close to noon did he get a call, for this was his personal not his work phone. It was not, in fact, from Sherlock, but from Mrs. Hudson.  
"I apologize for being so late, Mr. Lestrade. I thought maybe he was sleeping but when he never answered I used my key and he isn't in the apartment. There'a mess of papers I don't think I'm supposed to read on the table in the living room so I just left them alone. He always did leave a mess for me whenever he left. He can be so absentminded sometimes, I swear..."  
"Thank you for letting me know, I'm sending a car over now for the papers." He cut her off, knowing how she had a tendency to ramble. On other occasions, he was glad to listen due to her sweet nature, but he had a feeling of dread settling into his stomach and he didn't want to wait any longer than necessary to find out exactly what Sherlock had discovered in the papers.  
\---  
Sherlock must have dozed off from worry and boredom, since he was startled from sleep suddenly by the scuffling sounds of feet.  
"Back from the door, into the corner! If I don't like what I see, your John gets it!" Arron called out. Sherlock did as he was told and waited patiently for Arron to deposit John upon the mattress. The moment the lock clicked in place, he rushed to John's side and stretched him out comfortably. No bleeding wounds were visible and he checked under the torn shirt, as well as his bad shoulder. For a response, he got groans and moans of displeasure, which were like the sounds of angels to Sherlock. He knew John was safe which satisfied him so fully to his core.  
"Nod if you are okay." Sherlock demanded and John softly nodded three times. "When you get better, once we're out of here, you will tell me everything he's done to you."  
John, unable to say anything against, or for, such a demand, didn't respond. He sighed softly, almost like the mattress was comfortable.  
"How much later is it? I must have dozed off."  
"On...ly... a... few... ho..our...s" John choked out, coughing a bit. Sherlock nodded.  
They both sat in silence for a few more moments before Sherlock shifted to hover over John. One of his eyes was swollen now and there was freshly dried blood from his nose and cut lip. Without caring about what John would think, Sherlock gently touched his face, eyes glued to John's lips.  
"I need to tell you how upset I am with you." Sherlock said, staring at the eyes. He saw a shift in his face, knowing he was confused. "Getting yourself kidnapped and worrying me to disaster. If I wasn't such a great detective, you'd still be alone." For a few moments, he was quiet, a finger shifting John's lower lip. "I was so terrified, John, that I would never see you alive again." His voice cracked a bit, but to hide such a thing, he leaned down and pressed his lips against John's.


	6. Rescue

It was a gentle kiss, his injuries in mind.  
Sherlock was about to pull away when he felt John's arm come up, hand digging into the curly brown hair. He pushed down a little more, gaining a groan from John. There was a taste of blood in Sherlock's mouth but he didn't mind, so long as he tasted John. The taste of him was just like his smell. It was unique to only him and satisfied something deep in Sherlock. All the worry and anxiety he'd felt melted at the touch.  
After a short period of time, too short for Sherlock, he pulled away regrettably and smiled down at John.  
"You need to rest, I don't know what he did to you, but I couldn't stop it." His voicing it angered him, cracking his voice and bringing an almost snarl-like expression to his face.  
"It... it's... o...kay..." John rasped, coughing again. Sherlock looked into his eyes when the coughing was over and he didn't know how to accept that John thought it was okay. In his infinite capabilities, he couldn't comprehend how John could be so okay with this. John had taken a bullet, was forever crippled, and had been tortured in ways unknown the last three days and Sherlock couldn't even fight a man with a gun for him.  
"He threatens to shoot you and I can't think about it so I had to. I had to move." He looked away, unwilling to show John the confusing turmoil inside of him.  
Fingers, shaky and weak, touched Sherlock's face. Immediately he looked at John, his hand covering John's. The fingers gently pulled and Sherlock went down until his lips met John's once more. It was sweet and softly passionate, knowing that both parties were willing, and lasted longer than the first. Sherlock gently lied down next to John, caressing his face where it wasn't bruised and placing kisses as gentle as a butterfly's touch all over his face. He touched John's neck and shoulders where he could, he touched his arms and ribs.  
John mimicked what he could to Sherlock, his fingers gently, weakly touching the crooks of the skinny body. John whispered how good it felt and that Sherlock wasn't hurting him and how he wanted more. Sherlock, eager to oblige, continued his fondling only until John grew too tired, which is when Sherlock stopped touching and started kissing gently once more.  
When Sherlock woke up some time later, he was unaware he'd fallen asleep. He was on an uncomfortable mattress, a spring had been lodged in his shoulder blade most of the time he'd slept, but he didn't want to move because John was still fast asleep and Sherlock didn't want to wake him.  
He did, though, look up to see what had woken him. He had a large fear it was Arron back for John again. Listening, he heard no telltale signs such a thing was happening. He looked around the room and saw light starting to stream into the room through the poorly placed boards of the room. Sunlight. Soon, the sun would be bright and he didn't doubt that Arron did his tortures, whatever they may be, at any time the fancy struck him.  
Placing more kisses, soft as he could possibly do so while also getting a gentle taste of him, Sherlock thought to comfort him as he slept. Slowly, a small smile crept upon John's face and he shifted the smallest amount in Sherlock's direction. Inside, Sherlock was happier than he could remember being. He was at a level of peace he'd thought he could only achieve through case-work.  
He rolled, daring to do so, backwards and onto the hard packed dirt. In his pocket was his cell phone, still. He checked once more but the screen was still just as cracked as before, just as useless. He hoped the battery was okay. Probably not.  
The best bet John and him had was to leave the phone on and hope against hope that Lestrade would check up on him and figure out where he'd gone. Sherlock, not one to put faith in the intelligence of others, or faith in general, tried to be optimistic about it. It wasn't working well, but enough to put his phone back in his pocket.  
He looked at John, who was still asleep but no longer had a smile on his lips. Compared to sitting in the flat, bored enough to set off a firearm, this place was hell to Sherlock's boredom. He wanted to start smacking his head against the back wall, or maybe the door to get it open.  
After the sun had been up a few hours, right before he started to seriously contemplate doing just that, he heard the release of a lock. He stood ramrod straight, staring at the door.  
"Sherlock Holmes, back to your corner!" Arron barked fiercely, hatred more evident in his voice than anyone Sherlock had ever heard.  
"He's sleeping, Arron. I intend to let him sleep. You'll not have him." Sherlock was determined to do anything he could to keep John safe this time.  
"I don't care if he's on the threshold of dying. Move!"  
"I'll not move! He will not be disturbed. You have no right as of now." Sherlock heard nothing but silence. Suddenly, the door was thrown open and Sherlock put himself directly between Arron and John. But John made no move forward.  
The gun pointed directly at Sherlock's head, Arron looked quizzically at Sherlock.  
"You say I have no right? What rights don't I have? Him and all those in his squadron left me! They cut all my rights off the moment they all left me to get captured! I was tortured because of them! If they hadn't ran off, I'd still have my life!" Arron, who'd been shaking the gun around violently during this episode, seemed to be coming off his hinges. Sherlock saw the telltale signs of a man tortured to the brink many times, all barely having crawled back but just barely. It did horrible things to a mans mind.  
Due to the stability, or rather instability, of his mind, and knowing John too well, Sherlock didn't take any of these allegations seriously. The report may not be perfectly correct due to it needing to be straight to the point, no dilly-dally, but Sherlock was near perfectly positive that he was not purposefully left behind. The mind of a man who'd been tortured for possibly years only to be thrown out into an unforgiving world was a nasty place.  
"I took my rights back Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and took revenge on the heartless bastards who left me." Well, at least Sherlock had a positive reason behind the murders of the men in the photograph.  
"Okay, but you killed them all. Why did you kill the others?" Always the detective, Sherlock questioned in order to understand and determine the guilt. This man was definitely guilty, and definitely insane. The question now was why he broke, shattering into a million pieces of anger and hate.  
"Because they served with the same people who betrayed me! I thought you, of all people, would understand." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in shock, but let Arron continue. "You've been stepped on all your life and you yourself have said you're a sociopath."  
Smiling, Sherlock laughed a little. " I understand you perfectly. And I said, if you'd recall correctly, 'high-functioning sociopath.'"  
Arron, with a look of utter frustration, made a yelping sound which cut all humor from Sherlock.  
"She...rlo... ock?" John groaned out from behind him. Oh, if only he'd stayed quiet!  
Arron's face broke into a wide grin and he motioned with the gun where Sherlock was supposed to go. He went, knowing full well that a man so far gone as he would not likely give second warnings before shooting.  
After the lock clicked behind the two men, Sherlock angrily yelled again and again, long after the laughter of a madman had faded. He hit the walls until his knuckles were bloody and he kicked the door only to prove his point farther that it would be close to useless. His anger and frustration sated, but far from gone, he skid down the wall onto the mattress and sat for he didn't know how long.  
He waited patiently, as patient as he ever was, for Arron to bring John back so he could kiss the pain numb, so he could make John's life just a bit better. Soon, though, he grew anxious and convinced himself that it was taking longer than last time, though he'd slept most of that time. Agitation wormed it's way into his fingers which started picking at the dirt and mattress.  
Suddenly, after what seemed like an eternity, he hear loud crashing and stomping. Before his brain, almost fried from the missus of boredom, could comprehend what was happening, Lt. Lestrade tore the door open.


	7. Passion Promise

A gun was pointed at Sherlock only long enough for Lestrade to realize it was him before pointing it at the floor.  
"You look bored," Lestrade commented.  
"Do not get me started on the horrible effects a small space has on my mind." Sherlock snapped, rising. "You have to find John. Arron's doing things, I don't know. He's torturing John somehow."  
"We know, we found him first. He told us you were in the barn. Arron suggested he wasn't working alone, which would explain the gun. So far we haven't found anyone but we're certain he was alone. Just precautions."  
"He was working alone. Where did you find him? What was Arron doing? Where is John now?" Sherlock tried to leave the room but Lestrade stopped him.  
"You don't want to see where we got him, Sherlock, trust me. We have Arron in custody and John is in the ambulance. They won't leave until you get there."  
"I will go with John but you have to let me see where they were. The moment I desire you to dictate what I can and can not see, shoot me." Sherlock angrily pushed past Lestrade and stomped out of the barn. He was a bit stiff, not to mention thirsty, from having stayed in a small place so long. His shoulder blade, where the coil had been, felt bruised and sore. "Were they in the house?" He demanded and Lestrade called for him to slow down. Over his shoulder, Sherlock repeated the question.  
"Yes, dammit! But don't say I didn't warn you!"  
Sherlock went into the house and followed the officers that were standing about, waiting for orders, keeping an eye on things. Seeing Sherlock, most pointed the way, the rest got out of the way.  
When he crossed the threshold of a windowless, bare room with chains hanging from the walls and two metal tables holding an assortment of tools, Sherlock felt his blood run cool, then start to boil. As Lestrade showed up behind him, he frowned.  
"He was torturing him. But why?"  
"He kept yelling about needing more names. John said something about how Arron wasn't done, how he wanted all to pay. He was trying for names to more veterans." Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked in. It smelled like John in here, which meant he'd spent a large amount of time here before Sherlock showed up. Anger flared and he used it to fuel his search.  
Within minutes he got his brain latched upon each tool used, how it's used, the way John was hanging, where Arron had stood. In a faster time than those short minutes, he became more furious than he'd ever been.  
Sherlock spun, fists clenched. Lestrade read the pure, murderous rage in the mans eyes and called for back up. It took most of the force on the grounds to pull him to a stop in the front lawn about six feet from the porch. He'd evaded them until the mass outside had been able to wear him to a stop. Breathing heavy, he looked around for Lestrade.  
"Let me speak to Arron." Sherlock said softly, barely contained rage evident.  
"No, I don't want to have to put you in a cell overnight or longer, Sherlock, think this through. He did horrible things and he'll pay for them, I'll make sure of that. You need to see to John right now." Lestrade, though unsure what was between the two, understood that Sherlock felt strongly about his partner. He knew that it had been the main reason he'd kept the case immediately, why he'd tried so hard to find the killer, and it explained the way he'd reacted the moment he realized Arron was after John.  
At the mention of John needing him, Sherlock relaxed and nodded, willing to be led physically to the ambulance just in case he tried anything funny. With no hiccups, Sherlock entered the ambulance and they drove off.  
At the hospital, they took John for testing to see exactly how bad his problems were. Time passed and shortly Mrs. Hudson stopped by to give Sherlock some food, a change of clothes for him and John, and wishing the best of luck. She also gave him a charger to his phone for she'd tried calling and had gotten just voice mail, as well as demand he keep her informed.  
"My dear heart can't handle you two, I swear. You'll put me out of my misery soon enough, I'm sure." She rattled on as she wandered off. Sherlock was thankful for the objects but was also too worried to think of what to do with them currently.  
A little while later a nurse came and asked if he'd like to go to the room John would be moved to as soon as they were done with his testing and such. Nodding the affirmative, Sherlock followed her in the elevator to a room with two beds, both empty.  
"I was told to locate an empty room, and free of extra fees let you stay here with him. I am to show in the records that only one is staying but the second bed is out of order. You can stay as long as you wish so long as you respect our jobs and let us treat him to the extent of our capabilities and knowledge." She handed him a clipboard with a sheet of paper that basically she'd summed up. He signed it, not worried about breaking his word, and sat his things on one of the empty beds. She closed the door behind her.  
Sherlock sighed and grabbed the extra clothes. There was, in fact, a shower in the bathroom to which he used happily. He wandered down to the cafeteria for a water bottle and then went back up to eat what Mrs. Hudson had packed. A simple sandwich with crackers, but it was something.  
Sometime after he'd fallen into a fitful sleep, they brought John back. He was woken up by one of the nurses as was in the agreement: he was not to miss anything seemingly important. The return to John to him, looking healthy and clean, was more important than anything Sherlock could think of.  
Waiting by his bed, giving him an occasional kiss on the hand or forehead, Sherlock waited up to three hours before John started to stir. He made sure the first thing in John's sights was himself. A smile crept over his face, seeing Sherlock.  
"They tell me you're doing fine." He told John who nodded.  
"Yeah," He croaked out. he sounded more like he'd lost his voice over a cold.  
"I know what happened between you two." He said and a shadow covered John's face, his lips pulled down. "You don't have to talk to me about it unless you want to. I never need to hear it from you. Not unless you need to talk about it." John nodded in understanding and then reached for Sherlock's hand.  
"I... I didn't... dream us... Did I?" Though it was slow and seemingly painful, John got the words, and their feelings, out.  
Sherlock stared at him a moment before smiling and then shaking his head side to side. In order to prove it, he leaned forward and kissed John. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock, pulling him as close as he could get him, rubbing a hand down his back and deepening the kiss. Because he was on pain killers, John didn't feel when his lips split back open, nor did he care he suddenly tasted blood. Sherlock cared just as little and cradled John's face in one hand and rubbed a hand down his ribs.  
"God, yes," John whispered against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock took the small break to bow his head, placing kisses down his throat and shoulder. John let out a strangled gasp when Sherlock grazed teeth. He wrapped a hand to the back of Sherlock's head, keeping his head close.  
Sherlock felt heat rise through his whole body, spiraling down and nestling into his groin. Startled, he backed away just a small bit, breathing hard.  
"I need this," John whispered, urging Sherlock back down.  
"I know, but you need to be healed. I can't... I can't hurt you any more than you are. When you are home, okay?" Sherlock pleaded, giving small, quick, passionate kisses to John's lips to try convincing him.  
"We'll see what this is?" John asked, slipping a hand down Sherlock's chest, grazing the tops of his pants. Sherlock nodded.  
"Yes." John smiled and pulled his flatmate down for one more kiss before letting him go, claiming he was exhausted and needed sleep. Satisfied, Sherlock lied in the bed next to him and slept much more soundly than he ever had in a hospital.


	8. Precisely

Weeks later, Sherlock woke up in John's bed and rolled over to check on him. He was lying still, snoring softly. The bruises, cuts, and scrapes had all but gone, yet the psychological warfare inside his mind raged sometimes. It was a rare night when Sherlock hadn't either been asked immediately to stay with him all night, or when he'd been woken by the cries and screams of John. Last night, he'd been next to his flatmate all night and hadn't woken once. It was a first since before the kidnapping.  
Sherlock touched his face gently and liked the small smile that crept upon his face. It warmed him in many ways. He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss on John's lips. His intention was not, in any way, to waken the man. But as he started to pull back, he saw John's eyes open and fixed on him.  
"'Mornin'," he groaned out, stretching as much as the bed would allow.  
"Good morning." Sherlock responded, watching with warmth as John continued to groan and stretch. "Is there anything you need?"  
"No," John smiled, reaching his hand up and touching Sherlock's bottom lip. "Actually, I can think of something."  
"I told you, once you're all healed we would continue whatever it is that we started." Sherlock kissed the tips of John's fingers and then shifted to get up. Instead, John rolled over with him, getting up and straddling him.  
"As you can probably deduce, I'm feeling just fine. I promise, I'm fine. It was over a month ago and most of the bruising is gone, all wounds healed."  
"Not all." Sherlock stated mater-of-factly. John sighed real loud and rolled his eyes the best he could while trying to keep hold of Sherlock as he tried escaping.  
"Enough," John stated, placing his hand on the crook of Sherlock's pants. Stilling as if a knife was against his throat, Sherlock's eyes almost bulged, if John could believe his face was capable of such emotion.  
"I don't..." John cut Sherlock off, his lips rough and needy against his, John 's hand deepening the pressure against his trousers. The passion suddenly ignited and Sherlock rose his hips, pressing his member hard against John's hand.  
Gasping, they both clawed at clothes, skin connecting with lips and finger tips. Passion the likes of which neither had felt, filled them to the brim as they found themselves bare, Sherlock suddenly on top. He was trying to memorize the feel of John's shoulder with his mouth as John ran his hands up and down the bare, skinny back of his flatmate.  
Sherlock could have sworn the temperature rose ten degrees, though he knew better, by the way his and John's skin beaded with sweat. Their lengths rubbed together as he slowly rolled his hips forward. He heard a sharp groan from John and held his own back in order to hear him better. The second time he did it, he couldn't help but to groan with him, his teeth grazing the skin. John gasped, his hands clenching into the soft flesh of Sherlock's back.  
Having received a strong response and having his passion flare, Sherlock started a soft rhythm with his hips. The pleasure escalated until he had to raise the tempo. For more feeling, he grabbed one of John's hands and wrapped both of their hands together around each others' lengths. He turned his face, kissing John hard on the lips and bucking hard. John's hips had begun to mimic Sherlock's, heightening the feeling until it was almost too much to bear.  
They kissed until they both grew close, pulsing in each others' hands. Sherlock pulled away, burying his face into John's shoulder. As they peaked, they mixed their seed together, rubbing every little bit from each other. Sherlock moaned, arching his back almost painfully. John arched, moaning back.  
Breathing heavily, Sherlock rolled to the side and sat up. He cleaned himself off and turned, watching John do the same with a sock he'd found. They dressed in silence and accompanied each other to the kitchen where breakfast was assembled. They sat fairly close together in the living room, still not having said much more than a few words to each other, mostly about how the breakfast was.  
Sherlock heard his phone and went to go get it. John nodded, motioning that he wasn't going to get up anyway. He saw it was Lestrade and he steeled himself.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes, Lt. Lestrade."  
"Arron faced the court today. They saw the pictures of the murders and how John was when we found him. He was sentenced to life. I just figured you and John would like to know that before you saw it on the telly."  
"Thank you. Is there any new case?"  
"No, but I'll let you know first thing we find a dead body." Sherlock smirked and hung up, heading back out to John.  
"Arron has life. Which means I don't get to disassemble him." He said to John who chuckled softly. Suddenly, he sobered and turned to Sherlock who stilled and looked at John, wondering what had entered into his doctors head.  
"This thing between us. It was because of Arron, wasn't it? The life-threatening situation. Of course it would make us think of sex." John sighed, looking away from Sherlock and slumping his shoulders a small amount.  
"No, John. I have it on strong evidence that you've felt these emotions longer than just the life-or-death situation." John, looking mortified, turned back to Sherlock, whom sat down next to him. "As well, I have even stronger evidence that the situation we found ourselves in weeks ago would not have created such strong emotion between two men for so long, had the attraction not been present beforehand."  
John frowned in thought, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. A few moments passed, Sherlock waiting patiently, and John tried to speak again, only this time he succeeded. "Are you saying you've been attracted to me for a while?"  
"Precisely."


End file.
